


a study on a spy-assassin relationship, as conducted by i. rider and y. gregorovich

by OnyxSphinx



Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [3]
Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: M/M, TRYING to build up to an ianyassen coparenting fic, a fic which keeps refusing to materialise fully finished in front of me, much to my dismay, what am i doing you ask? fuck if i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Ian and Yassen have dinner.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110101
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	a study on a spy-assassin relationship, as conducted by i. rider and y. gregorovich

**Author's Note:**

> once again i am back with not the actual coparenting fic but buildup to said fic. sigh. one day i'll actually write the coparenting fic.

The card sitting before him seems to burn like a beacon; bright and brilliant even when he's not looking at it; the only thing lacking being the warmth a blaze would usually bring. Like its owner, it's cold and enigmatic; hidden and protected.

Ian knows he's giving it too much importance; but he can't help it. A week ago, Yassen had turned up at the house, ostensibly to deliver groceries, but some part of Ian thinks—hopes—that it was more than that; that he had come to see Ian himself.

Regardless, the card has a number on it, beneath a simple, Cyrillic, Казак—Cossack; a name that Ian hasn't seen in anything but redacted mission reports in years. Something about seeing it here, in his home, is startling—like seeing Yassen himself standing on the doorstep.

He's promised to call the number; given his word, in the best way he's able to. _Dinner,_ Ian had suggested. He's not sure, even now, what had prompted him to say it. Perhaps something in Yassen's tone when he had asked about the bullet wounds.

He had sounded—regretful, almost. Had said it wasn't personal, and, hell, Ian knows it wasn't; just a side effect of at times being on opposite sides but in the same place. And yet. And yet...

He shakes his head; picks up the card. Dials the number, once, then erases it; dials it again. Hits call, this time. The line only rings twice before it picks up. "Ian." His voice is guarded; always guarded, but when he speaks again, it's relaxed somewhat. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ian's cheeks heat against his will; and he suddenly feels like a schoolboy. "Yassen," he says. "I said I'd call."

"You did." Is that his imagination, or does Yassen sound— _surprised?_ It's gone as soon as it came, though. "You said—dinner?"

"Yes," Ian confirms. "I was wondering when you were free?"

Yassen hums. "I have no assignment currently. And yourself?"

"Only paperwork," he replies. "You know how things are—you have to note down every breath you take or they'll start an internal investigation over it."

He thinks he hears a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. He continues. "I was thinking maybe eight tomorrow night? There's a place downtown that's quite nice, not too big—it's not usually terribly crowded," he adds. An important thing, in their line of work. The more people, the more uncontrolled variables, the more liabilities. There's a reason he's never taken Alex to a public sporting event.

A beat of silence; the line crackles between them, neither speaking; and then Yassen says, "Text me the address."

Ian's lips twist, uncontrolled, into an approximation of a smile. "I will," he says; feels slightly triumphant—normally, he knows, Yassen would throw away the burner phone he's using as soon as their conversation ended. That he's not says something about his trust in Ian.

 _That, or_ , says the more cynical part of him, _he's figured out a way to block phone-tracing._ Ian wouldn't put it past the man.

The line goes dead without warning; leaving Ian to himself; before he scrambles, quickly typing out the address and sending it to Yassen; and not a moment too soon, because when he adds, _See you there,_ his phone informs him that the number he's trying to reach is currently not in use.

Ian sighs. Baby steps, as they say. A little's better than nothing.

There's a rustle and a creak as the front door opens; letting in the cold air. "I'm home!" Alex calls, a _thump_ of what Ian's fairly certain is the sound of his rucksack hitting the floor echoing through the house.

He opens the door to his office, making his way down to the living room. "How was your day?" he greets the teen.

Alex, who's made his way into the kitchen and is constructing himself a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, hums. "'s fine. Ms. Donovan's making us read Romeo and Juliet, which is boring. We have to write an essay on symbolism in the first section we were assigned."

"Ah, young love," Ian says, with a grin. "I remember reading it in school. Though," he adds, "I wouldn't say _boring_ is what I took away from it."

Alex hums. "I dunno, it just seems stupid that they're feuding, you know. Like, unrealistic. What are they even arguing over, anyway? The play doesn't seem to want to say."

"That's sort of part of the point," Ian points out. "It's supposed to be petty—that's part of what makes the tragedy even more tragic."

"Right," Alex drawls, sounding unconvinced; and then: "d'you want me to put away the stuff for sandwiches, or are you going to make yourself something?"

"No, leave it out," Ian replies; making his way to his nephew's side; and takes the cheese and lunch meat and lettuce from the fridge, assembling himself a sandwich. The mundane task leaves his mind wandering, and he realises, suddenly, that he's going to have to tell Alex about his—meeting? Date? Whatever it is with Yassen.

He clears his throat. "I'm going to be gone tomorrow night," he says, opting for the most direct route.

Alex raises a brow. "Work?"

Ian shakes his head. "I have...a meeting," he says, finally. "You remember Yassen?"

The other blinks. "The Russian man who came over last week? Yeah, why?"

"I'm getting... _dinner_ with him," Ian explains; feeling compelled, for some reason, to make Alex aware of the situation, even if he perhaps doesn't understand it.

Rather than the confusion he'd expected from the boy, however, instead, all that happens is a grin spreads across the boy's face. "I knew it," he says, taking a bite from his sandwich, leaning against the counter, "Tom said I was wrong, but I _knew_ it. He's your boyfriend, isn't he?"

Ian flounders; both at the information Alex's just given up—that he mentioned Yassen's visit to his friend—and the assumption that Alex has made. He can't deny it, not without explaining what's truly going on between them—not, mind, that he's quite sure what that is, either. "It's complicated," he settles on, instead.

Alex shrugs. "Okay. If you're going to be out tomorrow night, can I have Tom over? I wanted to have a movie night with him."

"A movie night?" Ian teases, in retaliation; and watches as Alex flushes.

"Shut up," he mutters. "I have to go do homework." It's a transparent attempt to escape an embarrassing situation, but Ian lets him; smiling slightly as he watches the boy ascend the stairs to his room.

"Young love," he murmurs to himself again.

The next day is a drag; monotonous and full of meetings about budget cuts and paperwork and not much else. So, when seven o'clock rolls around and he can finally leave. He took the car to work today in anticipation of needing to get home and change; and he was right, because the heating in the offices was up too high, and he feels sticky and sweat-covered.

When he gets back, Alex is already upstairs with his friend watching their films; so Ian just pops his head in to let Alex know that he'll be going in a bit, and then makes his way to his room to get changed.

He spends a good ten minutes fiddling with his tie before deciding that it looks decent; and then it's just waiting for the clock to strike quarter 'til so he can get going.

Finally, the time comes; and he says goodbye to Alex and makes his way out the door.

He gets there with a few minutes to spare. Yassen's already waiting out front, and when Ian makes his way over to the other. When he notices him—it only takes a second—Yassen gives him an appraising glance. "You look nice," is his comment; leaving Ian floundering.

"Thanks," Ian mutters, and then, remembering himself: "so do you."

Yassen's dressed minimalisticly; a dark turtleneck and a black blazer, and dark slacks. The outfit accentuates his lithe dancer's form; and his movements are graceful as they make their way into the restaurant.

"Two for Rider," Ian tells the maitre d'; and they're lead to a secluded table at the back of the restaurant, and given menus; their glasses filled with ice water.

They order in short order; and tuck into their meal without much fanfare.

"I am...surprised," Yassen confesses, as they near the end. "I was not sure that you would come."

"I arranged it," Ian points out. "It would be rude _not_ to show up."

Yassen takes a bite; cocks his head, and blinks, long and languid, like a cat. "Rude, perhaps," he agrees, "but understandable, if you did not want to come."

Ian frowns. "What did I do to indicate an unwillingness?"

"Nothing," Yassen replies. "But I cannot help but to wonder, Ian. It is not, ah, _common,_ for such things to occur, you understand."

 _Things_ ; the way he says it makes it sound so detached and innocent. _Things:_ a few kisses, a handful of lingering touches; once, a shared bed, when their assignments happened to have the same objective, but nothing more than that.

Ian picks up his glass; considering it; and takes a long sip; the cold water burning his mouth. "No," he agrees. "No, it's not. But then," he adds, with a sardonic tilt to his lips, "is anything about us common?"

Yassen tips his head in concession; takes another bite of his meal; thinking. Finally, he says, "We must decide how we wish to proceed from here on out."

Ian nods. "Yes," he agrees. They're in the last leg of the meal; and a decision must be reached. A silence settles between them as they each contemplate their own thoughts. Finally, Ian says, "Perhaps we could continue as we have—not interfering with each others' assignments unless directed to, and continuing... _this_ when we have free time."

Yassen quirks a brow. "That is an intriguing proposition," he says. "You know that one day we may be asked to eliminate each other, yes?"

"Perhaps," Ian acknowledges, "but what's the point in worrying about it now? It hasn't happened yet."

Yassen hums. "All right."

"All right?" Ian blinks. "I didn't think you'd agree so easily."

The other shrugs. "There are many benefits and few negatives," he says. "And...dinner has been— _nice._ I would be amenable to a repeat."

Slowly, a smile steals across Ian's face. "Amenable," he echoes. "Alright."

"Your choice of time and place," Yassen says, "I'm afraid that I'm not as familiar with this city as you are." That's a lie, and they both know it; but Ian appreciates what he's trying to do.

"How about mine?" he offers. "Next week—you can come over for dinner. Alex'll be pleased to see you again." He can admit that—Alex's eyes had lit up with excitement over meeting someone who, as far as he knew, was connected to Ian's work. And besides, Yassen had given his word that Alex wouldn't be hurt. For some reason, Ian trusts it.

Yassen smiles; thin and razor-sharp, and nods; just the once. "Yes," he says. "I would like that."

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
